Chapter 21
The Board
Sofie
Claudia:
With everything that went on yesterday, you still managed to post photos. Are you even human?
Me:
My sister from the same mister is superwoman, so it’s genetic.
Claudia:
If you need me at any point today, please reach out.
Me:
I’m still planning Noelle’s. Think we should drop the sis bomb?
Claudia:
Yes. I want to celebrate it with those we love.
Me:
How is Supergirl?
Claudia:
Cried when we dropped Deacon off with the boys.
Me:
Does it ever get easier?
I watch as her dot bounces and stops, and bounces and stops again.
Claudia:
yeah, I got nothing but, SPILL IT!
Me:
If I wasn’t already a smitten kitten, I would be now.
Claudia:
First sleepover?
Me:
We didn’t sleep much, so it doesn’t count. You and Savannah will be the first.
Me:
I mean, when or if or whatever, I’m not pushing.
Claudia:
I spoke with Matteo. I believe Arthur tried. I don’t hate him. What I hate is that it will hurt Paul.
Me:
We won’t. We’ll figure it out.
Claudia:
Good day?
Me:
Yes. I know it’s a good day because he asks for his watch.
Claudia:
The meeting?
Me:
Ten. Which is a good time for him typically.
Claudia:
Please keep me in the loop. I worry about you and your safety.
Me:
Always.
“We’re going to be late,” Dad says mildly, glancing at his wrist. Not confused. Teasing. Grounded.
“We’re always early,” I tell him.
He nods, satisfied. “Good. Shall we go?”
In the elevator, he asks if I’ve spoken to Claudia; he remembers she was here last night and her name.
“We text every day,” I tell him.
“Good. Don’t stop doing that.”
The elevator stops, and we exit. Everyone’s shock at seeing him makes my heart soar for him.
“Morning, everyone. How are we today?” He asks the question he always has.
And they respond the way they always have, “It’s a good day.”
“My favorite kind of day,” he chuckles as we walk to the boardroom.
It’s not just a good day. It’s one of the best. This is my father, Arthor Fairfax, my hero as long as I can remember.
Most of them stand when he enters. A few hesitate. I clock who does and who doesn’t.
He’s sixty. He looks it. Not weak. Just… weathered. Like a man who’s been standing in the wind for a long time and hasn’t stepped away.
I take the chair beside him. Not behind.
He doesn’t rush. He never has. He rests his hands on the table, palms down, grounding himself on something solid before he speaks.
“I won’t keep you long,” he says.
His voice is softer than it used to be, but still unmistakably his.
“I’ve spent most of my adult life in rooms like this,” he continues. “Planning for the future. Arguing about risk. Pretending we can control everything if we prepare enough.”
A few tight smiles flash, and he lets them sit for a moment before continuing. “I’m here today because preparation matters. Especially when the risk is personal.”
He looks at them then. All of them. One by one.
“I was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years ago.”
The word hits but doesn’t make a splash. Instead, it’s like a stone dropped into water, which causes a slight ripple to roll through, because they knew.
“I’m sixty,” he says calmly. “I’m not confused about where I am or why I’m here.
My doctors have confirmed my capacity. My counsel is present.
This is a decision made with full awareness of when this all began.
It’s a discussion that has been had several times since.
Nothing has changed in those two years except I am more certain every day that I’ve not only made the right decision for Fairfax Media, but the only one. ”
Smith shifts in their chair. Muldoon lowers his gaze. I glance at Matteo or Tomas, who gives me a slight nod, telling me he sees it too, further confirmation that he’s involved.
“This company deserves continuity,” he says. “Not whispers of uncertainty. Not a slow erosion of trust while people wait for something to break.”
He turns his hand slightly, an open gesture toward me.
“I am officially appointing my daughter, Sofie Fairfax, as my proxy for my voting shares, effective immediately,” he says. “She will exercise my full fifty-five percent when I cannot, or when I choose not to. There is no one who cares for this company more than she does.”
The words are precise, chosen, and practiced.
“This proxy is durable,” he continues. “It survives incapacity. It has been executed and witnessed. You all have copies.”
A pause while Mark, his personal lawyer, hands them out.
“I am also appointing Sofie to take on executive authority,” he says.
“Operational control. Strategic oversight. Day-to-day leadership. She is officially your CEO. She will make all staffing decisions, and can hire and fire anyone she chooses, including those hired as favors who are not cut out to work here.” He turns to me.
“I would strongly suggest that is Q1’s focus. ”
“Noted.”
Someone opens their mouth, and Dad lifts a hand. “This is not a discussion. This is ownership exercising its rights.”
Silence.
“I will remain involved as long as I am able,” he adds. “But I will not ask this company to pretend I will always be.”
Then, softer, more human. “I trust her completely.”
That’s what breaks the room, not the percentages, not the paperwork. His trust.
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it while giving me a wink.
“If you have concerns,” he says, looking back to them, “you may direct them to legal. Or you may decide whether you are still aligned with the company’s future and sell your shares.
But make sure to have your lawyers read the fine print.
I am to be offered the first option, then the CEO, who is now Sofie.
You sell lower to anyone else; you will lose in court. ”
They start whispering, and his voice cuts through it all. “I’m not finished.”
Every head snaps back to him.
“There’s been a lot of noise these past months,” he continues calmly. “A lot of sudden concern. A lot of whispered conversations that didn’t start in this building, but somehow ended up poisoning the very blood of it.”
His eyes move slowly, deliberately, around the table.
“Someone here decided the fastest way to weaken my position was not to challenge me directly, but to destabilize my family.”
My chest tightens.
“You riled up my other daughters,” he says flatly.
“With obvious purpose. You fed them stories. You framed this as theft instead of succession. You made them feel excluded so you could step in and ‘protect’ them to serve your own agenda.” He exhales through his nose, almost amused.
“Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise. ”
The room is frozen now, no polite discomfort, no corporate buffering. This is personal.
“You are not fighting for governance,” he says. “You’re fighting for control of a company I built from the ground up. A company that made you wealthy on my back, and the past two years, Sofies.”
That insult lands hard on those who deserve it.
“My plan was always to retire at sixty-five,” he goes on. “That was never a secret. What changed the timeline was your fear provoked by whispers and weakness.” His gaze sharpens. “You let whoever is behind this convince you that a woman isn’t capable.”
I straighten in my seat.
“I love all of my girls,” he says. “But only one of them has been here since she was born. Only one of them grew up learning this business from the inside out, because she loves it.”
His eyes lock onto one man across the table. The one who hasn’t shifted once.
“And let’s not pretend this is about family values,” my father says conversationally.
Someone gasps. Someone looks down at their notes like they might disappear into them.
He chuckles, as if it were a fond memory. “I should thank at least one of you for fucking my now ex-wife. I met the love of my life after that.”
Then the warmth drains from his expression.
“So, hear this clearly,” he says. “Sofie is not taking anything from you. You tried to take from her and from me.”
He taps the papers on the table.
“This isn’t a takeover. It’s a safeguard.” A beat. “You brought this on yourselves.”
He sits and looks around the room. No one moves; no one speaks.
I don’t look at them; I don’t need to. He leans toward me, voice quiet again, steady.
“Now,” he says, “let’s see who still wants to earn their keep.”
“You’re all excused until Sofie needs to see you, otherwise leave her the hell alone so you can keep cashing those checks.”
When they exit the room, Dad leans back and sighs, “We should discuss—”
“I have a better idea,” I say.
He looks at me, “And what’s that?”
“They all know, we don’t have to hide anymore, let’s go to lunch?”
“I have a better one yet, let’s go to the zoo.”
As we exit the conference room, Mr. Popularity himself stops and chats with people he’s avoided out of fear they’d notice.
I send a text to the girls.
Me:
Please change my name in your contacts to Sofie Fairfax, CEO of Fairfax Media.
Nalani sends a screenshot of my contact card. Sofie Fairfax, Boss Bitch.
Nalani:
Sorry, this stays.
Claudia:
So happy for you, I will consider.
Noelle:
Shut. Your. Face!
She sends a screenshot of my contact card.
Noelle:
Done!
Me:
See you all at 5-ish
Claudia:
Spoiler alert, Sofie Fairfax, CEO of Fairfax Media, got ‘stabbed’ by THE Killer last night.
“I know my memory doesn’t always serve me properly, but tell me it’s not the fourth of July with snow on the ground?” Dad jokes from behind me.
I hold my phone to my chest and lie like a freaking rug. “Nope, just my friends shooting off fireworks in honor of my new title.”
“Wait until you tell them your salary change.” He winks. “You ready?”
“I am.”
James is driving. Heat on low, windows fogged just enough to blur the skyline. No music. He never plays music when it matters. Matteo rides shotgun, coat zipped, eyes moving without drawing attention.
Dad sits beside me in the back, scarf folded in his hands like he doesn’t quite remember when he took it off.
“You’re sure about the zoo?” I ask.
He smiles, warm and certain. “I’m sure.”
Good day.
The farther north we go, the lighter he seems. His shoulders drop. His fingers stop fidgeting with the scarf.
The air at the Bronx Zoo is sharp and clean, the kind that turns your cheeks pink. The trees are bare, paths dusted with old snow that crunches underfoot. Fewer people here than at Central Park.
Dad takes my arm automatically. “You always wanted the bears first.”
I smile even though I very clearly remember it was he who loved the bears. “I did?”
He nods, like it’s obvious. “You wouldn’t relax until you saw them. You thought they’d go inside if we didn’t get there in time.”
My throat tightens. Matteo suddenly finds a sign fascinating and falls back further.
We reach the overlook, and there they are. Two American black bears, with thick winter coats, glossy even in the gray light. One shifts, snorts, then settles back down like the cold is just another fact of life.
Dad exhales slowly. “There they are.”
I remember being little, my gloves too big, my nose running, telling him they looked lonely. Remember him crouching beside me, explaining that some animals liked space, that quiet didn’t mean abandoned or lonely.
I didn’t know then how much he needed that explanation himself.
“They’re not afraid,” he says now.
“No,” I say. “They’re comfortable.”
He nods like that answers something he’s been carrying.
We don’t rush it.
December has thinned the crowds and softened the noise, like the zoo knows how to lower its voice during seasons where people need it to.
We pass the Congo Gorilla Forest. The glass fogs where kids press their mittens, but inside it’s warm and green.
Dad stops and watches the biggest silverback. “He looks like he knows something.”
“He does,” I reply. “He just doesn’t feel the need to explain it.”
Matteo smiles at that. James shifts his weight, content to let the moment hold.
At Tiger Mountain, a tiger paces the ridge, deliberate and unhurried. Every step looks chosen.
Dad reaches for the rail, steady. “That one doesn’t waste energy.”
“No,” I say. “He knows where he’s going.”
We linger longer than we need to. No one tells us to move along; maybe that’s why he loved it here as much as I did. It’s an escape from the rat race.
Up through the Himalayan Highlands, the air bites sharper. Snow clings to the rocks. Red pandas curled up, keeping warm.
“Before you ask, no, we cannot buy them coats,” he chuckles.
I lean my head on his shoulder, and we stand for just a minute longer before moving on.
We end near the Sea Lion Pool, where the water slaps and echoes. A sea lion barks, ridiculous and joyful, and Dad laughs, surprised by himself.
“Show-offs,” he says fondly.
“Yeah,” I agree.
We stand there, breath visible, city far enough away to forget. James checks the path ahead. Matteo stays close. Dad slips his hand into mine.
For a while, there’s nothing to manage, no rooms to read, no people to brace for. Just animals minding their business.
On the way out, Dad makes a beeline for the gift shop, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes bright.
“Oh no,” I laugh. “We’re not doing this.”
“Oh yes,” he says, decisive. “It’s Christmas.”
We leave with bags. So many bags. Bears, obviously. But also, elephants, lions, and giraffes wearing ridiculous winter scarves. Dad kept adding one more, as if generosity were seasonal and he were late to catch up, choosing to be part of it rather than writing a check.
“Harbor House?” he asks as we leave.
“Yeah.” I have yet to ask him why he lied, why he didn’t tell me the truth about Mom being homeless. But then again, why does it matter now?
At Harbor House, the staff tries not to fuss when one of the wealthiest men in a city full of them steps in, even when it isn’t the norm.
Christmas lights are already up, twinkling just enough to make the place feel hopeful.
Dad kneels to hand a stuffed bear to a little boy in a puffy coat who stares at him like this might be magic.
“For you,” Dad says gently.
The boy takes it quickly, like it might vanish.
I stand there, watching my father exist without being needed, without being asked to decide anything, without anyone taking anything from him. Just giving what his heart tells him to and being present.
James waits by the door, respectful. Matteo stands beside me, solid and quiet.
“This was a good idea,” Matteo says softly.
I nod. “The best one.”
When we leave, Dad takes my hand. His grip is warm, steady. Like he always did.
James opens the car door, already ready to get us home.
As we pull back onto the street, Christmas lights start to glow against the dark, and something settles inside of me.
They all know now. Two years of looking over my shoulder is over. We can just be, like we are right now.
And in December, of all months, that feels like a gift.